by Sarah Lark
Kathleen thought it was very nice—a cottage like the ones she had known in Ireland. She was vaguely reminded of the small house, overgrown with ivy and flowers, of Lord Wetherby’s steward. Trevallion—she had hated the man but loved his house.
“A lovely house,” she said, stepping into the living room, where Peter Burton’s English furniture had finally found a place. She glanced out the window. “You need only add a garden. Vegetables and flowers.”
“Don’t change the subject, Kathleen,” he said firmly. “We need to talk, and no one will see or hear us here. So they can’t tell strict Father Parrish that you held hands with the Antichrist. Now, let’s have it. What’s wrong? Why don’t you even look at me anymore? My God, Kathleen, I thought you, that you loved me, a little at least.
Kathleen shook her head violently. “Of course I don’t love you. You, you misunderstood something. I, I’m not permitted. Father Parrish . . .”
“Father Parrish does not determine whom you love,” Peter said firmly. “Whom you love and whom you’re drawn to—only God determines that. And if you don’t love me, Kathleen—if you can honestly tell me you don’t love me, then at least you can tell me that while you look me in the eye.”
“Maybe, maybe the devil determines it too,” whispered Kathleen. Then she did look up at him. He saw how pained she was. “I’m damned, Peter,” she said flatly. “I’m sinful. And I have to do my penance for that. Ian, Ian was my penance, and I did not accept that. And now, now the devil is trying to tempt me again. Please, let go of me, Peter. Leave me in peace.”
“So, I’m a temptation of the devil?” Peter did not know whether he should laugh or cry.
Kathleen did not answer. She fled the house and then, as quickly as she could, the garden.
Had she gone mad? Kathleen did not understand herself anymore. Everything she’d gone through—her sins, the loss of Michael, Ian’s abuse, Colin—was too much. She didn’t know how to move past all of it.
Peter rejoined his guests, but he could not really take joy in his big day. Kathleen still loved him. Her eyes had told him that clearly. But unless a miracle occurred, she would never come to him. She would torture herself until the end of her days—and one of the reasons for that was this story, related to her marriage to Ian, that she still kept hidden from him. Ian was supposed to have been her penance? For what?
Suddenly a loud discussion between Heather and Sean caught his attention. Apparently they were upset by their mother’s behavior. As Peter watched them, he suddenly had misgivings. Blonde Heather, dark-haired Sean . . . Colin also had blond hair. Ian had been swarthy, and yet . . . Peter never would have thought something could send him back to the prospectors so soon, but now his only thought was of going to Tuapeka to look at the church’s records. At Ian Coltrane’s death, he had asked Kathleen for the date of their wedding and noted it. Back then, he had not thought to compare it with Sean’s date of birth.
Meanwhile, Claire was determined to produce a miracle by means of a serious talk with Kathleen as soon as they returned home.
“Kathie, it’s none of my business if you have canonized Ian in retrospect. If you’re determined to wreck yourself and your friendships and turn into one of those black crows we used to make fun of together, then please, by all means, go ahead. But I won’t allow you to ruin our business. We’ve worked too hard for that. So if you don’t draft the new designs soon, then I’ll do it with Lauren Moriarty.”
Lauren was one of the women who sewed for Kathleen and Claire.
“Lauren?” asked Kathleen. “She can’t even draw.”
“But she can imitate the dresses in a fashion magazine and alter them a little. That’s easy, Kathleen. I can do that too: you take one dress, put the collar of another on it, and add the belt of a third. Not particularly original, but this is Dunedin, not Paris. No one will notice the designs aren’t yours.”
“But I, I would notice!” exclaimed Kathleen in disbelief. Slowly, she removed the hatpins from her hair and took off her black hat.
Claire ripped it from her hands and flung it to the floor. “Kathleen,” she said adamantly, “you will have other worries. Because if you don’t get back to work, I won’t pay you. You’ll have to see for yourself how to get the money for Sean’s and Heather’s schools. And Colin’s school too. Maybe your priest will take up a collection for you.”
“But, but you can’t do that. The business belongs to both of us. Half of it is mine.”
“Then sue me!” screamed Claire. “We’ll see how far you get.”
Kathleen looked at her, wide-eyed. “But we’re friends.”
Claire inhaled deeply. “Kathleen Coltrane was my friend,” she said, “but she seems to have died. Now I live with Saint Mary Kathleen, and I don’t have much in common with her. I’d be happy to bring Kathleen back to life, and if I have to punch and kick this sniveling Mary and deny her money and throw her on the street, then I’ll do it. Whether she’s my friend afterward or not.”
Kathleen bit her lip. “I’m going to change,” she said quietly. “And fetch my charcoal. Then . . . then, I’ll make a few sketches.”
Claire was so happy she pulled Kathleen to her and twirled her around the room. “Well, finally! Kathleen, this time we’re going to make loads of designs. Like the famous houses in Paris and London. With housedresses and afternoon dresses and evening gowns. And to top it off, a wedding dress. Don’t worry about the cost. Someone will buy it, and if no one does, it will be worth the investment in advertising.”
So far, there had been few brides among the women who could afford Kathleen and Claire’s fashion. Most of the couples who formed the high society in Dunedin had arrived together, but their children were now growing up in New Zealand and would, without a doubt, soon be marrying each other.
“I want a wedding dress in the display window,” insisted Claire, when Kathleen tried to disagree, “because one belongs there.”
Chapter 7
The farm in Queenstown seemed promising. Lizzie loved its location on a small rise with a view of Lake Wakatipu. No manor house was included, but there was a spacious, homey farmhouse of solid construction and in good condition. A flock of well-bred sheep could be bought along with it. The owners’ only daughter had married in Blenheim, and now they planned to follow her north.
“What would be the point of staying on here without successors?” asked the farmer, a red-faced, practically minded Scotsman. “I hear there are people who love sheep, but I’ve no problem leaving them.”
The MacDuffs had a Maori maid who wanted to stay on, as well as a few shepherds they paid by the day. Lizzie got along with the maid at once, and Michael would be able to come to an agreement with the men too.
Michael was set on the farm, and Lizzie had no strong objections. The estate was rather far from the nearest city, and in her heart Lizzie also regretted that, at least at first glance, there were no north-facing hills for vine planting, but she did not want to argue over any of that. Michael would call her crazy—or fear anew that she was trying to order him around. Her plan to experiment with different grapes would have to remain a dream.
Lizzie and Michael promised they would transfer a payment for the farm into the MacDuffs’ account once the Scots had seen to all their affairs in Otago. MacDuff wanted to make the final sale only after the sheep shearing, which Michael found reasonable.
“Otherwise, he would have worked all of last year for nothing,” he explained to Lizzie, who would have liked to move in sooner.
“And what will we do till then?” she asked. “I have no desire to spend another spring in Tuapeka.”
Michael laughed and spun her around. “We, my love, are going to spend the next few weeks not working in Dunedin. We’ll waste a portion of our hard-earned money senselessly. We’ll rent a room in a hotel; you can drink wine, as much as you want—and we’ll get married, of course. In the church of that reverend of yours. Hopefully it’s not still a tent.”
“I’d marry
you under the open sky,” she said, laughing. “In any case, I’d like to have a wedding dress. Do you think we have money for one?”
Michael made a dismissive gesture. “We have money for two wedding dresses.”
Lizzie wagged her finger at him and winked. “You don’t really mean to court two women, do you, Michael?”
Lizzie found Dunedin exciting. The most important stone buildings in the city center had been finished. St. Paul’s Cathedral really did hold five hundred faithful, and the octagon in the center of town hinted at future glory. Most of all, though, there were stores and markets for every wallet size. Dunedin reminded her of London in that way: there were rich citizens who strolled the streets and parks, showing off the latest fashion as well as their beautiful equipages and horses; and there were impoverished immigrants who dwelled in almshouses and tents.
Outside the city center, the streets were often muddy, no one collected the trash, and sanitary infrastructure was lacking. Reverend Peter Burton, who had taken to helping the poor again straight away, found in this a rich field for his work. Once again, he organized kitchens for the needy and care for the sick. Lizzie supported him with donations. She was happy to be counted among the well-off citizens for the first time in her life. Michael had made good on his promise and rented a suite in one of the city’s best hotels. They ate in the best restaurants and attended the theater—and they planned their wedding.
Caught up in their new lifestyle, Michael wanted to get married in St. Paul’s, but Lizzie preferred Reverend Burton’s church on the outskirts of Dunedin.
“I’d really like Reverend Burton to marry us,” she said, “and what good would a church with five hundred seats be? We don’t even know anyone here.”
Eventually, Lizzie triumphed, and the date was set for November 2. She would be a spring bride.
“And you’ll be a baby in the fall,” she whispered to her child.
She was now sure she was pregnant, and she was happy about it. She hadn’t yet told Michael, however, and she hoped it would not be visible by the wedding. Lizzie wanted to be a slender and radiantly beautiful bride. So far, though, she only had vague notions of what the dress was to look like—until one day when she strolled down George Street, one of the most fashionable shopping streets in Dunedin.
The shop was small and very exclusive, and the most beautiful cream-colored lace wedding dress Lizzie could imagine was displayed in the window. Gold Mine Boutique—Women’s Fashion. Lizzie had to force herself not to press her face against the window like a child. But she did not need to dream anymore. She had money. She could buy this dress.
Lizzie entered the shop. She had never been in a store like it before. But the young woman who welcomed her did not seem frightening; at most, a bit intimidating. She wore an elegantly tailored business outfit. The light-brown color of her skirt and jacket suited her walnut eyes. A pale-green blouse and a dark-green scarf thrown casually around her neck loosened the outfit and gave it even more style. The petite woman wore her dark hair up and smiled charmingly.
“Good morning, I’m Mrs. Edmunds. How can I help you?”
Lizzie breathed in deeply. “The wedding dress,” she whispered.
Mrs. Edmunds beamed. “I knew someone was just waiting to get married in this dress. My business partner complained because I insisted on a wedding dress for the spring. Somehow, I had a feeling. Come, try it on. That’s what you wanted to do, right?
Lizzie shifted her weight shyly from one foot to the other. She had not reckoned on such a hearty greeting.
Claire Edmunds misinterpreted her reserve. “Don’t worry about the price. We’ll work something out. If this design suits you . . . That is, retailoring is expensive, naturally. But this dress was intended to catch the eye, of course, and . . .”
Lizzie blushed and shook her head. “No, no, I, we, we have money. It’s only I’ve never worn anything so beautiful before.”
Claire had, by this point, taken the dress from the display window, and Lizzie ran her hand over the shimmering silk and delicate lace, marveling.
Claire beamed. “I know, isn’t it lovely? There’s nothing to compare it to here. Dunedin is on its way to being a city but still a long way from Paris or London—or even Liverpool. That’s where I’m from. You?”
“London,” responded Lizzie, trying not to let her Whitechapel accent show.
“Oh, London. You were at the center, there. Wait a moment, miss; I’ll help you—putting on the dress requires an extra set of hands.”
Claire chattered blithely while she helped Lizzie out of her simple afternoon dress and into the dream of lace and silk. Kathleen had based her creation on an English design that had been made for a woman of the high nobility. She did not care for it herself, thinking it overdone. Indeed, the dress would not have looked particularly good on either Claire or Kathleen.
Jimmy Dunloe had only shaken his head when Claire paraded it before him. “One would have to go searching to find you under all those flounces and that lace, Claire,” the banker had said, laughing. “Decidedly too much for you, and the color makes you look pale.”
The intricate dress overpowered even Kathleen’s beauty. The many flounces and sashes made her slender but womanly figure look plump.
When Claire saw Lizzie in the dress now, however, it took her breath away. The rather unassuming, boyishly slim young woman suddenly had rounder body features. The flounces and lace emphasized her breasts, and the cream color perfectly set off Lizzie’s complexion. Her fine hair seemed fuller as it fell over the filigree lace, and the long gloves that went with the dress hid her calloused hands.
Lizzie looked at herself in the mirror. This was no longer Lizzie Owens or Lizzie Portland. This was a princess.
“It’s unbelievably beautiful,” she gasped.
“Wait a moment, miss: the veil. Here, if you’ll turn around, I can put it on. You can wear it short or long. My business partner designed it to be short, which is very modern. Only a few women would be brave enough. Look, the garland is made of wire and crepe and lace, but it’s meant to mimic orange blossoms and . . .”
Claire placed the veil and turned Lizzie around toward the mirror again. They both fell silent at the sight of Lizzie in full bridal dress.
“It’s perfect,” Claire finally said. “Or almost, anyway. We need to make a couple of slight tucks, and I’d like to move the neckline up.”
She quickly inserted pins and thread, but Lizzie saw only minimal differences. To her the dress was perfect just as it was.
“We can have it ready for you as soon as the day after tomorrow,” said Claire. “That will be all right, won’t it? And if it might be possible: Once you have a photograph of yourself in it, would you let us have a copy? Such a beautiful bride; Kathie absolutely must see you in the dress before the wedding. In fact, let’s schedule a time for your fitting when she can come.”
Lizzie laughed. “Of course, of course,” she said happily. “But if you—if you’re going to alter it anyway, the wedding is in a few weeks, and it could be . . .” Lizzie blushed but felt surprisingly few reservations in front of this woman. In a good fashion boutique, as she was just discovering, feminine secrets were safely kept. “It could be that I’ll be a bit plump.”
Claire beamed. “How lovely! Congratulations. That’s no problem at all. There’s this sash anyway. Under that we can easily make room for an additional guest if you’d like to keep it your secret for now. Oh, I’m so happy for you. Where are you going to marry? Maybe I’ll come to the church. It is our wedding dress, you know.”
“The woman is unbelievably friendly,” Lizzie reported excitedly when she met Michael for dinner in the hotel that evening. She had ordered champagne to celebrate the day. “And imagine: they design these dresses themselves. Mrs. Edmunds or her business partner, Kathie, she called her. It’s expensive, of course, but I’m getting a discount because Mrs. Edmunds thinks that the dress and I, that we’re meant for each other, so to speak.”
/> Michael eagerly raised his glass to her. “Dear, you and I are meant for each other. As far as I’m concerned, you could wear sackcloth. But very well, I’ll take a look at this wonder dress the day after tomorrow. We’ll see if I recognize you in it. After everything you’ve told me, it sounds like it will transform you into an angel—or should I say a cream puff?”
Lizzie shook her head, almost dropping her glass. “Are you mad, Michael? You can’t see my wedding dress. That brings bad luck, guaranteed.”
Michel laughed. “You’re a wealthy grown woman, my dear Lizzie. That’s quite a superstition to believe in.” He took her hand and kissed it. “As if it makes any difference whether I see a few yards of fabric or not. What would your Maori friends say? They don’t wear any wedding clothing at all, right? Clothes would just get in the way of sleeping with each other in the meeting house.”
Lizzie furrowed her brow. “Even wealthy grown women can be pursued by bad luck,” she said. “And the Maori certainly have their own rituals.” She thought of the ceremony a chieftain’s wife had to endure every time she simply wanted to visit her husband. “Don’t spy, Michael. You’ll see my dress for the first time in the church.”
Michael nodded. Regardless, he would ride by George Street the next day and take a look at this fabulous dress. After all, what could bring them bad luck?
Lizzie was so excited for her fitting that she arrived at George Street a half hour too early. When she finally entered the shop at the appointed time, Mrs. Edmunds was waiting for her with two other women: Mrs. Moriarty, the seamstress, and Mrs. Coltrane, the co-owner of Gold Mine Boutique. Mrs. Moriarty looked friendly and motherly in her simple muslin dress. She seemed just to have come out of her sewing room. Mrs. Coltrane, however . . . Lizzie had been intimidated by Claire Edmunds’s beauty and elegance, but she was awed by Mrs. Coltrane. Though she wore an exceedingly simple black dress without any flourishes, she was still surely the most beautiful woman Lizzie had ever seen.
